


Minor Setback

by Rose_of_Pollux



Series: Inktober for Writers 2018: Hurt/Comfort edition [16]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 06:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16320449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: The first thing to do upon waking up in a dark, unfamiliar place is to get your bearings.  That can be easier said than done…





	Minor Setback

Waking up in pitch darkness was always a bizarre experience—it was deliberately disorienting, something that THRUSH was counting on whenever they did it. Illya grumbled and cursed under his breath as he struggled to his feet—and promptly bumped his head on the low ceiling.

He cursed THRUSH again, and then focused on trying to get his bearings. He could feel air coming from a ventilator; judging from the intensity of the air flow, the vent was a tiny one, so trying to remove the grate and traveling through it was out of the question—not that the old chestnut ever really worked, anyway.

He could also smell mildew and feel damp dirt under his hands. He was in an old cellar—the low ceiling had been put in to disorient anyone behind held down here. Well, that solved one mystery—but it didn’t solve how to get out of here…

Illya’s thoughts trailed off as another smell reached his consciousness—a very familiar scent.

“…Bay rum,” he murmured.

Napoleon was here with him—most likely still unconscious, given by the lack of response to Illya’s mutterings and curses against their captors.

The Russian followed his nose until he found his partner; gently, he clapped him on the side of the face to bring him around.

The sound of Napoleon’s grumbling had never sounded more welcome.

“Urgh… Illya?”

“I am here,” Illya reassured him. He paused as he heard Napoleon scrambled to sit up. “Careful, Napoleon; mind your--”

“Ow!”

“…Head on the low ceiling.” Illya rolled his eyes.

Napoleon growled in frustration as he rubbed his head.

“My patience with THRUSH grows thinner by the day,” he muttered.

“Well, we have been divested of all of our weapons and devices, so if you wish to vent your frustrations upon them, we shall have to be clever with how we go about it.”

“Well, there has to be a door,” Napoleon said. “We didn’t just teleport in here, after all. And sooner or later, they’ll have to send someone to check on us. I say we try to find where the door is, and get ready to waylay whoever they send to check up on us.”

“Fine by me,” Illya agreed.

As far as they were concerned, this was just a setback to their mission—and soon, they would be back on track.


End file.
